Heatwave
We took Joshua for a drive-through coronavirus test last week. Nothing screams out a good time like that sentence, does it? I don’t want this to be an anxious read for anyone we’ve seen recently so let’s cut to the chase; it came back negative. No nursery closure on our conscience, no day-ruining calls to friends and family required. Hurray. He’d coughed a few times in the morning and had a runny nose so, despite Louise and I being 99% sure it was a mild cold, we did the responsible thing and headed to the testing site at Kirkstall Leisure Centre. I am no stranger to dark times at Kirkstall Leisure Centre; when going for my 25-metre swimming certificate, I started floundering so badly our swimming instructor had to hold out the pole and drag me to safety. No badge for my trunks, tears on the way home. I’ll never forget that day in 2018.
Our latest visit was arguably less fun. Now, I’m fully aware that the testing volunteers deserve enormous credit and you might well ask, “What have you done to help during the pandemic, Andy?” (This blog doesn’t count, does it?) However, if we’re going to split hairs, they could be a bit cheerier. I don’t know if the job requirements state that you need to be as solemn as humanly possible but there is a solid end-of-the-world vibe going on and, while I’m not asking for Disneyland levels of customer service, I honestly think I had a stronger rapport with a balaclava-wearing man in Poland who nicked my phone than our guy at the testing centre.
From behind his mask, he greeted us with a frown, then tapped on the window and pointed at the radio, indicating I turn it off. We were listening to Taylor Swift’s new album which I happen to quite like. There, I said it. What of it? (In further evidence that my musical tastes are evolving to that of a teenage girl’s, following a sleepless night a couple of weeks ago, I found myself dangerously close to tears when “When The Party’s Over” by Billie Eilish came on in the car.)
I wound the window down for the guy to pass the test through. I’d wound it too far, he said, shaking his head and, I imagine, tutting under his mask as I drove to our allocated spot. The instructions are fairly simple. What isn’t simple: sticking a cotton bud up a 2-year-old’s nose and twizzling it around for 10–15 seconds. Joshua balled and thrashed in a manner comparable to my 25-metre certificate humiliation.
After getting home, he laid on Louise’s lap and watched multiple episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Then, two hours later, he sprung up, demanded an ice cream and declared he was better. And he was. He was absolutely fine. Of course, we still had to take him out of nursery until his results came back. A 48-hour wait which coincided with a 48-hour heatwave and I now understand why my dad, ordinarily a cheerful man, looked so miserable on those family holidays to Majorca. Red hot weather and children = bad combo.
The sun went to Joshua’s head and he became increasingly volatile, charging around and throwing arm-thrashing tantrums with tears rolling down his rosy red (possibly-but-hopefully-not-sunburned) cheeks when I didn’t permit a third ice cream of the day. We tried to keep Jacob, a baby, in the shade but he can now just-about crawl so much of the day was spent picking him up and placing him back under the umbrella, only for him to instantly wriggle free then cry because the sun was in his eyes. I was hot and bothered pre-10 am on both days, struggling to get any work done in our hotbox of a spare room, and disproportionately snappy when Louise tried to lighten the mood by spraying me with water.
“Will you just piss off!”
It wasn’t Louise holding the hose. It was Joshua.
On Wednesday evening, I played football for the first time in six months. Pitch booked for 8 pm. If things go smoothly, the children are asleep by 7.30 pm but this is rare. I was emanating contagious levels of stress, it was still sweltering, and, at 7.45 pm, neither Joshua nor Jacob were close to threatening sleep. This presented a moral dilemma; do you let down your family or a bunch of men you met on a local Facebook group that you don’t know particularly well? Obviously, I played football. Come on? We’re talking about a guy who swore at a 2-year-old awaiting a coronavirus test result here. When Joshua was a baby, I was faced with a similar situation. With kick-off fast approaching, he was crying uncontrollably and headbutting the side of his cot. On that occasion, Louise pulled out a good trick and just left the house. Checkmate. I am keen to point out she gave me her blessing this time. Kind of.
“You’re making the situation worse, Andy. Just go!”
Despite the heat, I thoroughly enjoyed my return to the Astro-Turf and, with post-match endorphins flying, I was keen to tell Louise about a cool left-footed finish. Unfortunately, I returned to a scene similar to the one I’d departed and felt like a piece of shit. Jacob, Louise told me, was too hot and had barely stopped crying and Joshua, also too hot, kept deliberately rolling out of bed and onto the floor. In my sweat-drenched Anderlecht shirt, I went into Jacob’s room and tried to settle him.
“So, the ball was played through the middle, I ran on to it…”
His crying intensified. Louise came upstairs, told me I stank, and took Jacob from me. She didn’t ask what the score was. I kept our of her way and nursed a beer downstairs before heading for a shower. Louise had just got him back to sleep but my shower, it turned out, woke him up once more.
“For god’s sake, Andy! Why did you have to wash now?”
“You told me I stank?”
It was decided (not by me) it would be best to bring Jacob back into our bed so I was, once again, relegated to the Slinky coffin. Hello, old friend. The subsequent night’s sleep comprised of tossing, turning, crying and snapping, to the soundtrack of a rickety fan that did nothing to cool the stifling room. All the good stuff. The following day, I accepted the error of my selfish ways and vowed to turn down any football matches that kick-off before 8.30 pm (i.e., all football matches) until Jacob is sleeping better. Given the way things are going, this may be my retirement from 5-a-side football.
I used to love hot weather but these days it is hard work (since becoming a parent, I’m learning that this is the case with quite a lot of things. Who knew?) and the heatwave was not a vintage few days in our house. It’s not all bad though. Joshua doesn’t have coronavirus and for that we are grateful.
And I was delighted with my left-footed goal.
